Cadences
by ravenscaronff
Summary: Sherlock dissects John's dating habits in public - he thinks he's been brilliant but just comes off as cruel and John is devastated. Lestrade and Mycroft try to help. Lots of hurt/comfort/angst but everything ends well. Mature readers only, please!
1. Broken Wings

**Broken Wings **

* * *

_Chapter Summary_

_Sherlock is a jealous jerk and John is hurt._

* * *

Broken Wings - Mr. Mister

_Baby, I don't understand, why we can't just hold on to each other's hands._  
_This time might be the last, I fear, unless I make it all too clear._  
_I need you so, ohh..._

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly again, learn to live so free._  
_And when we hear the voices sing, the book of love will open up and let us in._  
_Take these broken wings..._

_Baby, I think tonight, we can take what was wrong and make it right._  
_Baby, it's all I know, that you're half of the flesh and blood that makes me whole._  
_I need you so._

_So take these broken wings, you've got to learn to fly, learn to live life so free._  
_And when we hear the voices sing, the book of love will open up and let us in._  
_Yeah yeah_

Sherlock gave as good as he got, elbowing his way through a throng of jolly drunks as he walked up to the table where John sat with Greg Lestrade and a group of men from the rugby club. He tried shouting over the raucous laughter and rowdy conversation in the pub to get John's attention. Greg was regaling the group at their table with tales of his escapades with his latest squeeze and John seemed to be in very good spirits indeed, enthralled with Greg's narrative, laughing uproariously and clapping Greg on his thigh when he told an especially good joke.

Greg had known John long before he returned from the war to reside at 221B Baker Street. They were mates and met every week for drinks at this pub, something that Sherlock forgave with some reluctance. He found Lestrade tolerable, not terribly bright but much preferable to idiots like Anderson. This weekly John-at-the-pub-with-Lestrade event, however, translated to weekly John-not-with-Sherlock-where-Sherlock-thought-John-belonged (_-forever_, his mind suggested, unsolicited) evenings. And that just would not do. He had only seen John and Lestrade communicate in the context of a case and found this other side to their friendship, this easy camaraderie and the manly touches, inexplicably disconcerting. Watching them now, he felt something unfamiliar. He felt _jealous_. He felt supplanted.

Sherlock was obscured from their view by a couple of burly men, who, judging by the expanse of their shoulders and chest, clearly were promising members of the rugby club and judging by their rank, sweaty bodies had, even more clearly, made good on that promise earlier that evening. He kept his distance and scrunched his nose in disgust.

The table vibrated with riotous belly laughs every couple of minutes as Greg continued to deliver punch line after hilarious punch line, drawing from an apparently inexhaustible stock of quips and anecdotes. Sherlock's already short supply of patience was running dangerously low. He was a little disappointed that John seemed to be enjoying this animated conversation about plebian topics such as rugby, work, beer and women. Sherlock would much rather be working on a case, talking to John (alone) or playing his violin. Soon, however, the conversation moved to John and his fabled ability to literally charm the pants off women of all shapes, sizes and colours. Sherlock began to pay attention.

Greg teased John about his assembly line of medium-term girlfriends in the past and his legendary sexual prowess, paying particular tribute to his status as Three Continents Watson and then commiserated with him, feigning sympathy, about his failed conquests in the past year. John coolly laughed off his tacit insinuation that Sherlock was playing the invisible third wheel in his recent short-lived relationships. 'Fuck it!', he joked. 'I'm due for a shag. God, I am _over_due! I need to get laid, mate. Ooh...Whom should I pull, Greg? Sarah? Jeanette? Who'd you pick for me?' he asked with a laugh.

Sherlock froze but then swallowed his aversion to any form of bodily contact with the sweaty, malodorous hooligans before him, extended one gloved finger and used its tip to tap one of the burly men on the shoulder to let him through. The thug looked back, scowling but gave way when he heard Greg.

'Look who's decided to make an appearance! Hey Sherlock, missing John, yeah?' Greg joked, rather indelicately and then let out a loud burp. 'Oh, excuse me!' he giggled.

John, however, seemed ill at ease and his greeting was somewhat subdued. 'Sherlock. Didn't expect to see you here. I did tell you I'd be home late. Everything alright?'

Sherlock positioned himself between John and Lestrade and, looking down at his hands, he pulled off his leather gloves, deliberately, one finger at a time as he ignored John and addressed Lestrade. 'You could pick Sarah or Jeanette or that irritating twenty-something girl at the Tesco checkout or the sniveling social worker who shows up at St. Barts every Wednesday. Pick anyone. I can tell you precisely how it will play out. John is rather formulaic. He'll go on 2 dates with each woman. He'll wear his oatmeal jumper, blue jeans and black shooting jacket on the first date. It gives him his look of "reliable doctor looking for a serious, long-term relationship, possibly to settle down". The jacket provides _just _a suggestion of danger; it's exciting if you know to look for it.'

'On the second date,', he continued smugly, 'he'll pull on what he considers his "come-to-daddy" costume - navy blue shirt that brings out the blue of his eyes, jean-style khakis and black leather jacket - which complements the grey in his hair and gives him a mature yet raffish look - obviously with a view to triggering the more primitive instincts in his date so that they cut short dinner, which is a farce anyway and John's euphemism for sex, and begin engaging enthusiastically in the horizontal pursuits which appear to be the only point of his abjectly pointless and perennially unproductive dating endeavours.'

He had delivered the entire assessment in a single breath.

The table fell silent. Mouths dropped open as Sherlock continued with his scathing, and chillingly accurate, appraisal of John's dating habits, masquerading as his contribution to the joviality he had interrupted. Sherlock's deductions were always dispassionate and uninvolved but today, John detected a certain bitterness in him that appeared to be fueling this verbal onslaught. His face was set, his eyes were narrowed and blazing with a hardness that John had never seen in them before, his expression showing subtle resentment as he clinically unraveled John before strangers. He seemed unaware of John's increasingly shattered expression and if at all he realized that his every brutal word was wounding John, he didn't let that stop him.

'If', he continued, 'he does make it to the third date, he will, of course, realize that he'd much rather spend his time with me. I provide his moderately-intelligent brain with much needed intellectual stimulation. Typically, though, he doesn't make it to a third date. I've only got to send him a text and he abandons his lady friend in the middle of his date to attend to me. I've lost count of the number of times he's hurried home to hand me his laptop from another room, simply because I said "Could be dangerous" .' He added, rather disdainfully, ' He'll come, always', as if to establish for everyone's benefit, beyond any doubt, that he, Sherlock Holmes, superseded all other relationships in John's life. Sherlock was the sun and John was his satellite, forever caught in his orbit. John's expression had steeled, the initial shock and hurt giving way to indignation.

Anderson sensed a growing schism between the two men and seized his chance. 'He's like your pet, isn't he, Holmes? You whistle and he bounds up to you, panting, waiting for you to throw him a bone. Or a frisbee to play fetch. He's like your puppy.' he chuckled contemptuously.

'Shut the fuck up, Anderson!' Greg snapped at Anderson. 'Fucking idiot!' Turning to Sherlock, he made no attempt to hide his shock. 'Sherlock, what the _fuck _are you smoking? You'd best leave, mate, before you fuck up even more.'

Sherlock ignored Anderson and Lestrade and, turning to John, smoothly continued his callous flaying. 'John, you're a bigger idiot than the women you date. If you are unable to rise above your need for regular physical release, you might want to look into the Internet as an alternative to these ineffectual mating practices, especially considering you don't want children. Your laptop is capable of accessing diverse and adequately arousing visual stimuli of both hetero- and homosexual varieties to facilitate your manual attempts to achieve climax.' He paused when he saw John's face cloud with horror. 'Oh, don't look at me like that. I've seen your Internet search history. In any case, I'm sufficient for the rest of your needs. Stop fooling yourself and stop wasting our time. '

He peremptorily slapped his leather gloves in his palm and with thinly veiled impatience, pushed himself off his barstool. 'Let's go home.'

The table turned as one to look at John whose lips were pressed shut, his jaw clenched. His eyes blazed as he glared at Sherlock for a whole minute, his hands balled into fists and his arms trembling. John was furious and ready to explode at his flatmate but the soldier in him took over and he turned on his heel and walked out of the bar without another word.


	2. You're gone

**You're gone**

* * *

Chapter Summary

Greg is outraged and Sherlock discovers he has a heart.

* * *

You're gone - Marillion  
_You're gone. As suddenly as you came to me  
Like nightfall followed dawn without a day between  
You're gone and suddenly I can't see  
I'm in the shadow of you, I'm in the shadow of you_

Greg dragged Sherlock by the arm to sit at a different table, propping his elbows up, his head in his hands.

'What the _hell _was that, Sherlock! You were an absolute dick to John and, as far as I could tell, there was no reason. What the bloody hell got into you?'

Sherlock said nothing. He pulled out his phone and started to type a text message to John. He deleted it and dropped the phone back in his pocket.

'Not your business, Lestrade.'

'It IS my business. John is my friend and I thought you were his. _He _thought you were his friend. What the hell, Sherlock. Why would you say such terrible things to him? You were a bloody arsehole back then. I hope he is able to forgive you.'

'There's nothing to forgive. Everything I said was true.'

'You bastard! You're really fucking clueless, aren't you? You ripped him open in front of those blokes. You basically implied he is gay or at least bi-sexual. John, who declares to anyone who will listen that he is _not _gay! They are his drinking buddies, _not _his _friends_. I have no idea what it's like between the two of you but you went too far today. If you have half a cell left in that brain of yours, you'll go home and beg him to take you back.'

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table. 'You don't get it, Lestrade! I'm _saving _John the effort of having to prove himself to these _ordinary _women', his lips curling in disgust on the word, 'not one of whom is worth the _air _he breathes. They recoil from his past, his battle scars. They are too blind to see that _that _is what makes him the man he is. He comes across as an ordinary, safe and unremarkable 40 year old doctor who's looking for a wife and kids and a house in Sussex. They are _completely _oblivious to the _soldier_, the man who comes alive in the face of danger, the man with cold nerves of steel, the man who will take a bullet for a friend. They _don't see any of that_! They aren't _worth _his time. He deserves so much more. He deserves to be _celebrated_. And _treasured_. _Every. Day_. I can give him what he needs, what he wants.' He paused before adding. 'What he doesn't _know _he wants. What I want to give him.' The unspoken implications of that statement hung heavy between the two men.

'Sherlock...what are you saying...You know how that sounds, don't you?'

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, uncertain of his meaning.

'What the hell are you on about?' Sherlock barked.

Greg was silent for a few moments and shook his head. When he spoke, his tone was serious and his smile sad. 'You're in love, mate. Congratulations. You've gone and fallen in love with John Watson and you've just wounded him worse than the war did. Bastard.' he said but his tone had no bite. 'Oh, by the way, I'm not sure he'd take a bullet for _just any _friend, but he'd die for you. Yeah, that he would do.'

Sherlock looked alarmed, as though he had been condemned to mediocrity. _Love_. An overused platitude for a commonplace _sentiment_. Dull. He snorted in derision.

'Think about it, Sherlock.' Lestrade persisted. 'Do you remember how you described John? "Brings out the blue in his eyes", 'just a suggestion of danger" "raffish yet mature looks". I would never think to describe a _friend_ like that. And what doesn't John know he wants that you could give him? You've got yourself in a mess. The sooner you figure it out, the better for you and John.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. You've had one drink too many and are blabbering', Sherlock said dismissively.

'OK, then, examine the evidence and theorize.' Lestrade insisted. 'That's what you do, isn't it? I'll refresh my drink while you deduce yourself. Go on, do it.' he challenged.

'Interesting.' Sherlock thought, as he watched Lestrade walk toward the bartender. 'Lestrade might have a point. Maybe he's not so dull after all.'

Conventionally, being in "love" implied that the person in love liked, needed and wanted the object of his or her affection. All right, then.

Postulate 1: Sherlock liked John  
John was loyal, intelligent (not as intelligent as Sherlock, but then that was a tall order, indeed), tolerable (he paid the rent on time, he knew when to leave Sherlock alone and when he wanted company) and tolerant (he regularly blew a gasket when he found a jam jar with fingers in it, or a human head in the fridge, but he always forgave Sherlock). John was easy to talk to. Sherlock didn't need to pretend around John who accepted him just as he was and, in fact, found him amazing, brilliant, extraordinary. Sherlock basked in John's adulation and often found that he was trying to impress him. If John was a little less forthcoming than usual in his appreciation, Sherlock felt disappointed and a little empty.  
Verdict: Sherlock liked John. Unquestionably.

Postulate 2: Sherlock needed John  
John bought the groceries and toiletries, cleared Sherlock's messes in the kitchen and living room, disposed of experiments that had developed more culture than the Royals, cleaned the bathroom, made sure Sherlock was regularly fed, helped Sherlock kick the habit by hiding his cigarettes from him, shot a murderous cabbie for him on the first day of their acquaintance, functioned as a conductor of light, inspiring genius in Sherlock. Sherlock was more effective on cases when he shared and worked through his theories with John who was a far more communicative sounding board than the skull.  
Verdict: Sherlock needed John. Indubitably.

Postulate 3: Sherlock wanted John  
John concealed a very attractive body under hideous jumpers and ordinary jeans but Sherlock had accidentally caught glimpses of John in a towel, as he dressed after a shower, or shirtless as he undressed after a long day at work. Sherlock felt a pleasant pooling of blood in parts of his body he had chosen to ignore for decades. This strange stirring between his legs intrigued him and he rationalized his continuing desire to to catch John in a state of partial or complete undress as a need for more data.

He found that he paid inordinate attention to John's mouth, cataloguing the conditions under which his tongue would dart out to wet his lips, wondering what they would feel like against his own, John's eyes and the different expressions they conveyed by simply narrowing or widening slightly (he had never thought to ascribe the adjective 'smiling' to a pair of eyes but with John, it seemed to fit), John's hair and how it shone golden in the sun and how the moonlight reflected off the silver flecks, John's lean biceps and corded forearms, John's chest with its smattering of golden brown hair that looked so soft, the beautiful scar that Sherlock wanted to study for shape and texture. And taste.

He found himself wondering how it would feel to be encircled by those arms and held against that chest and how much he wanted to lay his ear against John's heart and listen to it beat. How John's skin would feel if he were to trail his fingers on John's chest and ribs and belly and lower...Oh. He had, apparently, spent a considerable amount of time thinking of John.  
Verdict: Sherlock wanted John. Insanely.

**Conclusion: **Sherlock loved John. Undeniably. Irrevocably.

This deduction had taken precisely 2 minutes and 52 seconds. When Lestrade returned with his drink three minutes later, he saw Sherlock staring at him, and then his body stiffened and his eyes went wide as though a terrifying truth had just been revealed to him. He slowly turned his head, unblinking, to stare at his hands, balled into fists on the table, fingers digging into his bloodless palm, willing his racing mind to slow down. He felt his insides begin to collapse as the magnitude of his actions became clear to him. A hollow wave of nausea hit him in the solar plexus. He had fucked up. He had never given voice to his raw, aching need for John. It somehow snaked to the surface, unbidden, whenever John tried to begin a relationship and Sherlock unconsciously ended up doing something, anything, to disrupt it. Today he had let that _sentiment _suffuse him with uncontrolled jealousy at the mention of John's love life and reduce him to cruelty, flinging vitriol, under the guise of truth, at the only friend he had ever had.

'What have I done?' he whispered, his voice raw and shaking with despair. His eyes were glistening with unshed and wholly unwelcome tears. He was panicking and his breath came in heaves. 'Oh god, what have I done! I have to talk to John. I have to get him back. Oh god, oh god, oh god!'

Greg put a hand on his shoulder and tried to calm him down. 'Hey, come on. Easy. Eee-aaasy...Just breathe...breathe...that's it. Ease down...John is a good man. One of the best men I know. Talk to him. I can't say if he feels for you romantically but that man loves you. If anyone would forgive what you did today, it would be John. Go to him, Sherlock. Make this right. You've got to.'

Sherlock remained silent, trying to navigate the accusations and recriminations colliding in his head as he engaged in an imagined dialogue with John, supplying his friend's apparition with the words he desperately wanted to hear when he begged for forgiveness. Forgiveness that he knew he had no right to expect. Lestrade watched the detective wage an internal battle, his expressions betraying his turmoil, struggling to bring order to the staggering chaos in his mind.

Finally, ten long minutes later, Sherlock's fists fell open and he surrendered to the very real possibility that he had effectively destroyed John and their friendship. Sherlock was not one to give up without a fight. He could talk his way out of anything but he held very little hope that his flawless logic would save the only relationship he cared about.

Greg looked over at the detective and gave him a sad smile. 'You know, the two of you, anyone can see how crazy devoted you are to each other. It's obvious to everyone except you two. I really hope you work it out, Sherlock. Don't be afraid to get your knees a little dusty. John is worth it.'


	3. Don't turn away

**Don't turn away**

* * *

Chapter Summary: Sherlock is remorseful but John isn't buying it.

* * *

Don't Turn Away - Whitesnake / David Coverdale  
_You say your dreams are burned to ashes_  
_And all your smiles have turned to tears_  
_It seems to me you welcome sadness_  
_As you surrender to your fears_  
_So what's a man like me supposed to do_  
_When all I want is just to make love to you_

_Don't turn away, before the night is over_  
_Don't turn away, before the night is gone_  
_Don't turn away, the night may hold the answer_  
_So don't turn away, before the night_  
_Before the night is gone_

Sherlock left the pub and headed back to 221 B Baker Street. He had not expected John to be home but he was. He had showered; Sherlock caught the scent of John's honey-vanilla shampoo. John sat, waiting in the dark living room, in his armchair. Silent. Watching. Watching Sherlock enter and take his scarf off and hang his coat on the peg on the door.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, facing John's silent, shadowed figure.

'Is that how you see me?' John asked, his voice cold.

'John...' Sherlock whispered. 'I'm sor..'

'Answer my question.' He cut him off. 'Do you see me as your pet? Your dog?'

'Anderson is an idiot! He's irrelevant! You know that!'

'Is he, really? Because you made me sound like a dog, a horny dog.' His tone was level but icy.

Sherlock kept still, his head hung in contrition. Anything John said to him, no matter how vicious, he would welcome just so John would continue to speak to him.

'Do you know why I come when you call? Do you have any idea?' John challenged.

When there was no response, he continued. 'I come because I _care_. I _care _for you. You _matter_ to me. Your safety, your health, your happiness. You are _important_ to me.' He stopped. He had tried to staunch the flow of emotions but now they threatened to break free and his eyes stung and welled with tears that he wouldn't permit himself to shed. He wouldn't give Sherlock the satisfaction of breaking him. No one broke John Watson.

'You were inhuman, Sherlock. I can't imagine what made you do what you did today.' His voice was soft with disbelief. 'You've never thought much of my dating habits, my intellect or my appearance. You've never thought much of _me_. But it didn't matter. You don't think much of _anyone_. In any case, I have not needed anyone's sanction before and I don't need yours. But I imagined that in some corner of your mad psyche, you had a _little_ regard for me and valued me, at least as a…utilitarian…presence in your life. And I presumed that we were friends and that joshing about between friends is fine. God knows I give you enough grief for your experiments and utter lack of social skills. And I've been guilty of exposing some aspects of you to the world that I probably should not have.' He paused to take a breath, then another and another.

'But today, you were cruel. You crossed a line. I can forgive a lot. I couldn't live with you if I didn't let things slide. But you went too far today. You hurt me. No. Don't say it. I know you don't care. You're probably thinking I'm being a sentimental, weak idiot, yeah? Alright, I _am _an idiot. But an idiot who has _had _it with you.'

They both stayed silent for a long moment. Then Sherlock spoke.

'John... forgive me. Forgive me...'

'I can't. I _am _sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry, for myself, for you...I'll need a few weeks to make arrangements but I will move out by the end of next month, sooner if possible. I hope it won't be too much of an imposition to ask that you put up with my idiocy for, at the most, another 5 weeks. I'll stay out of your way.'

'No! John!' Sherlock cried. 'Please! Don't leave! You don't need to _move_ out! Please! Let me explain! Please, John!' he pleaded. He tried to grab John by his arms but was roughly pushed back. He lost his footing and crashed into the table, grabbing on to stay upright.

John just shook his head, looking down at his feet. The room was quiet except for the sound of slow, heavy breathing from these two conflicted men. The gravity of this moment permeated the air, thick, almost suffocating John. And then he spoke.

'I love you, you know. So much.' he confessed, softly.

Sherlock stood still, stunned, speechless.

He was rooted to his spot against the table, helpless, drowning in love for John but unable to speak. Logic and science were rendered useless as he was buffeted and tossed about in a swirl of disquieting emotions that he had no power to control, much less process. John, his soldier, his doctor, was laying himself open to him, a cruel man John had called 'friend' but who had, not two hours ago, ripped his heart to shreds with his words. He wanted to kneel before this fearless man, wrap his arms around him, rest his face against his body and tell him over and over that he loved him. He loved him. But he couldn't speak. His throat was swollen in panic and he tried swallowing but the words wouldn't come. Nothing made sense. John's confession of love should have made his heart sing but it only made him cringe in shame for having willfully torn into the one person for whom he would give his life without a second thought. He had injured his friend. He had ruined his love.

'As you so eloquently informed everyone at the pub, it turns out I _am _bi-sexual. But since I met you, there is only you. All those women were...they meant _nothing _to me. You are everything to me, Sherlock. _Everything!_ I _know_ you're married to your Work. _Sentiment_', he added with a snarl, 'is beneath the great Sherlock Holmes! Well, you _did_ tell me! So, once again, I'm the idiot in all of this. The scene at the pub was a terrific reminder.' he let out a bitter huff, filled with self-loathing.

Sherlock shook his head and shouted, to no one in particular 'No! Stop this!' as if to clear his mind of the fog of sentiment obscuring his thoughts. 'John, please look at me, please!'

'I can't bear to look at you. You make me feel like a fool.' he said and then turned around to head up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock stood, gripping the edge of the table. His mind was swept up in a whirlwind of torment. He had to make this right. He _had _to! He could make it right. John loved him! He had said so! John would forgive him anything. Wouldn't he? Maybe not anymore.

He ran up the stairs to John's room but it was bolted shut. He banged on the door shouting 'John! Let me in. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.' There was no answer. 'Please...John...please open the door. Open up! Please...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please...just talk to me' he pleaded. He slid down against the door and crumpled to the floor, listening for footsteps that never came, wishing fervently that John would open the door. He continued to thump on the door but it stayed shut. He stayed that way for a long time.

When Sherlock awoke, he found he had fallen asleep on the floor by John's door. His eyes felt crusty and his cheeks were tight and stretched from the dried tears that he hadn't realized he had shed. The door was still shut but not locked. He knocked gingerly and then opened it a fraction, looking in, hoping to see John. It seemed empty. Pushing the door open, he saw that John was, indeed, not in the room. He pulled out his phone to check the time - 8:15 a.m. John must have left for work. And then the realization that John, kind John, caring John, would have stepped over his prone body to exit his room made it terrifyingly clear to Sherlock that he had really fucked up this time.


	4. Nothing compares to you

**Nothing compares to you**

* * *

Chapter Summary: Sherlock is depressed but John doesn't care. Enter one Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Nothing compares to you - Sinead O'Connor

_It's been seven hours and fifteen days_  
_since you took your love away_  
_I go out every night and sleep all day_  
_since you took your love away_  
_since you've been gone I can do whatever I want_  
_I can see whomever I choose_  
_I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant_  
_but nothing, I said nothing can take away these blues,_  
_'cause nothing compares_  
_nothing compares to you_

John  
John honoured his promise and stayed away from Sherlock. While in the flat, he kept to his room, emerging briefly only to open the door for his order of take-out dinner and to use the bathroom or kitchen. In the mornings, he showered very early and left the flat very quietly, making sure not to alert Sherlock to his presence. If their paths did cross in the living room or the kitchen or the stairs, John kept his eyes averted and wrapped up his business as quickly as he could and returned to his room. He did not initiate conversation with Sherlock but when spoken to, he always responded in a cordial manner.

In his avoidance of Sherlock, he didn't observe that his flatmate was not eating. He didn't stand around Sherlock long enough or close enough to smell the cigarettes on him. He didn't notice the dark circles forming under Sherlock's eyes and his increasingly sallow complexion and cadaverous cheeks. Sherlock had not broached the subject again and had made no attempt to discuss things. When they did speak, it was fewer than ten sentences. Sherlock seemed indifferent to whether he stayed or left and that only strengthened his resolve to find alternative accommodation at the earliest.

Sherlock  
It was two weeks since the incident at the pub and Sherlock knew he was being avoided. John had changed his schedule so that he accessed the common areas of the flat when he was relatively certain that he would not run into Sherlock. The few times they did happen to see each other, John was quick to turn around and return to his room or flee the flat.

Some part of him was still John, though, as he continued clearing Sherlock's messes, buying groceries and washing the dishes. He remained genuine and kind in his responses to Sherlock's attempts to initiate conversation. However, the dialogue invariably died after a few sentences. Neither of them saw any point in protracting the exchange if they had to try so hard. And John never tried to speak to Sherlock. He no longer offered his characteristically-John rejoinders to Sherlock's observations. He only responded if Sherlock asked him a question. The air in 221B felt oppressive. Sherlock was not alone in the flat and yet he had never felt more alone.

The days passed in a blur. Sherlock didn't eat. He showered everyday but didn't go out. His routine was reduced to showering, drinking water, smoking, drinking some more water, smoking some more, sleeping only when he was close to collapsing, waking up and smoking again. When his body simply refused to move without sustenance, he forced himself to eat a few biscuits which then sustained him for a few more days.

John  
John tried to regain some normalcy in his life. He didn't return to the pub with the group from the rugby club but he did meet Greg for drinks. Lestrade tried to talk to him about Sherlock but John would quickly change the subject. Lestrade wouldn't quit. 'I'll say one thing, you both are a couple and sometimes, couples need therapy.' he offered unhelpfully. John told him, categorically, to lay off it so Lestrade gave up, hoping that the two men would find it in them to do the adult thing and talk things out.

John continued to attend his shifts at St. Barts, dealing with colds, running noses, fractured bones, allergic reactions, and other banal physical ailments. After an especially exhausting shift, he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes as he picked up the last file for the day.

Patient details: _Victor Trevor, Male, 34 yrs. Smoker. No family history of heart disease/diabetes/cancer. No known reactions to any medication. No known allergies._ Complaint: _Broken heart._ 'Oh, this one I've got to see', he thought and allowed himself a small smile. He knocked on the exam room door and turned the handle.

'What the fuck!' he exclaimed when he laid eyes on his patient. 'This _really_ is not funny.'

'It was not my intention to be funny', his patient, a very melancholy Sherlock Holmes, calmly clarified.

'Victor Trevor. Your boyfriend in Uni, yeah? Should've tipped me off. Guess I'm more tired than I realized.'

'John…'

'What do you want? Really. Just say it and leave.'

'We need to talk about this. Are you ever going to talk to me?'

'I have nothing to say to you.'

'Alright, then. I'll leave.' Sherlock said. He sounded frayed. He pushed himself off the examination table and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

John leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, willing himself not to break. He had to move out.

Sherlock  
Sherlock missed John like he would miss a limb. It was as though a part of him was wrenched off and the bleeding wouldn't stop. He had never before suffered despair or loss - this was torture and it was crippling him. He waged a torpid war with his emotions as he wallowed in his memories of the adventures he had shared with John, the frenetic chases around London, the knowing smiles, the Thai, Indian, Chinese take-out food, the tea and biscuits, the quiet afternoons when neither man said a word but spoke volumes with just a glance and a slight smile, the lazy weekends when they relaxed on the sofa, watching crap telly with Sherlock critiquing every show John had supposedly thrust upon him, ignoring John's clarification that Sherlock was not being forced to watch television with John as well as his rather tactless suggestion that Sherlock retire to his bedroom if he found John's taste in television programming this distasteful. He missed everything. He missed John. John, who had wanted to but now would never be his. Because Sherlock Holmes destroyed everything he loved.

Sherlock was pining and there was little he could do but watch John turn his back on him, again and again. John didn't want him. John didn't even like him. He had made that very clear that day at St. Barts.

Mycroft  
Sherlock lay on his bed, eyes listlessly looking at the sliver of gray sky visible through the window. His phone rang. Scowling, he glanced at the number and disconnected. It rang again. He disconnected again. It rang a third time. He pressed 'Talk' and barked 'What do you want?'

'Come, now, brother, you know you're not angry with me.'

'Shut up, Mycroft. Get on with it. What do you want?'

'I'd like to hear what _you_ want, Sherlock.'

'Surely the omniscient British government knows that already?'

'I _do_ know, but I want to hear you say it. Do you have the courage to face your feelings?'

Silence…A long beat later, Mycroft spoke again.

'Sherlock…', he sounded concerned. 'What is it that makes you destroy everything important to you?'

'I have no idea what you mean, Mycroft. Now if you're done wasting my time, I have more important matters to attend to.'

'By "important matters" I suppose you are referring to lying in your bed, unshaven and unfed, staring out of the window and lamenting your loveless life.'

'Fuck you, brother. Leave me alone.'

'Oh, I will, when I think you're capable of looking after yourself. I worry about you. _Constantly_.'

'I'm _perfectly_ capable of looking after myself. And I'm intrigued about this sudden rush of concern for me. You were content to stay out of my hair for months now.'

'Oh indeed, I was. But you had your doctor, then. And now you don't.' Mycroft was nothing if not factual.

Sherlock almost winced audibly at the knife Mycroft had just plunged into his side. He bit his lip to keep from retorting.

Mycroft's voice hardened. 'Sherlock…you were vicious to John. Why?' He was very much the older brother now.

And after years of self-reliance, Sherlock wanted to let go and allow himself the weakness of vulnerability. He was not infallible and he _needed_ a sanctuary. He was broken and no one seemed to care enough to hold him up. He felt so alone. John used to be his refuge but John didn't care anymore.

'I don't know…' he whispered. 'John was…I don't know…I just don't know, alright?!'

'I would never have thought you capable of melodrama.'

Sherlock ignored the taunt and the brothers were quiet as they each tried to think of something to say to the other. They were Holmeses, after all, and had always shunned sentiment in favour of intellect. Then Sherlock spoke again. His voice was level, as though he had come to an understanding with himself.

'I hurt John because I love him. I didn't realize it then but that is why. He said he loved me and yet he's moving out. And I have to let him go. He won't speak to me anymore. You were right, brother. Caring is not an advantage. All hearts are, indeed, broken. It's over.' He sounded resigned and tired.

'Ohhh, I wouldn't say that.' Mycroft sounded amused. 'I reckon you'll have more than five weeks to smooth things over with your doctor.'

'What do you mean?'

'You'll find out...' Mycroft said, mysteriously. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. 'You see, Sherlock, the British government is, indeed, omniscient. And omnipotent, too. You might, however, find yourself reacquainted with John's cruder vocabulary. I'd be prepared.'

'You're making no sense, Mycroft.'

'I'm afraid I have to go. Duty calls. The world won't run itself, now, will it? I'll be in touch, brother.' Mycroft hung up.

John and Sherlock  
The door to the flat flew open, ricocheting against the wall as John stormed in and marched up to Sherlock's bedroom.

'What the fuck are you playing at?' he demanded.

'I have no idea what you're talking about, John. It might help to put your accusation into context. I am brilliant, yes, but not psychic.' Sherlock countered as smoothly as he could under the circumstances. His heart was pounding in his chest. This was the first time in two weeks that John had _begun_ a dialogue.

'You're up to something, aren't you? You and that serpent you call a brother. You fucking Holmes brothers!'

'Honestly, John, you are making no sense. Please calm down before you give yourself a coronary.'

'Fifteen flats! I located _fifteen fucking_ flats for rent and not one of them is available anymore. Even more mystifying is that they were all rented out to some unknown third party within the last half hour. Is it just me or do you see Mycroft written all over that? Hmm?' he raged.

Sherlock remained stretched out on the bed on his back. He folded his arms under his head like a pillow and turned his head to look directly at John, impassive and expressionless.

John was not finished. 'You couldn't fix your issues so you went running to your brother, didn't you? What's your problem, Sherlock? You don't want me. And you won't let me leave. Make up your fucking mind!'

'John, stymying your efforts to find another flat and trying to make you stay when you clearly don't want to would be tantamount to doing something _human_. And, as you so eloquently stated that night, I am _inhuman_.' Sherlock's voice was bitter and steady.

'I assure you I had _nothing_ to do with your _flat_ situation. Now, if you don't mind, I was resting.' He turned to the other side, feeling John's gaze burning into his back. Sherlock smiled. He must remember to thank Mycroft.

John stormed out of the flat, slamming the door on his way out and headed for the first club he could find.


	5. Something to Save

**Something to save**

* * *

Chapter Summary: 'fessing up and making up. Dialogue-heavy chapter.

* * *

Something to Save - George Michael

_If you've got something to say_  
_Why don't you say it_  
_If you've got something to give_  
_Why don't you give it to me_  
_Day after day I have to say it_  
_We're moving further from heaven_  
_And closer to the deep blue sea_

_'Cause I have no secrets from you_  
_And I have nothing left to hide_  
_And I'm open to all your questions_  
_Why can't you reach inside_  
_Like I have, Like I have for you_

Thirty seconds after Sherlock heard the front door open and slam shut, he shot out of his bed. Another six minutes later, he had shaved and showered and put on a wine red silk shirt and slim black suit. His damp curls were artfully tousled and he knew he looked delectable. He wore his shoes, wrapped his purple scarf around his neck and pulled on his Belstaff coat before striding out onto the street, in pursuit of John. He was going all in tonight. There was no turning back.__

Sherlock caught up with John in a few minutes and kept his distance as he followed him to the Blue Lagoon, a popular gay club. He stayed out of sight, entering the club behind a few couples holding hands and kissing loudly and walked up to the bar to order a drink. John stood at the other end and was already being propositioned by a very blonde, very fit, very tall man but he didn't seem interested and a little while later, the other man seemed to get the message and moved on to other potential conquests. Sherlock's relief died stillborn as another tall, slender man approached John. He was dressed in a navy blue suit with an emerald green shirt. His dark curls fell over his forehead, stylishly framing a long, pale face. Sherlock stiffened. A short, attractive, blonde man had approached Sherlock but backed off when he saw the warning in those cold, pale eyes. Sherlock turned back to look at John.__

John and the dark haired man spoke for a little while. John was leaning forward into the other man's personal space. He seemed interested. The other man reached out a hand to touch John's face and ran a finger along his jawline, trailing a path down his neck and along his collar bone, pushing open the vee of his shirt a little wider. John seemed a bit uncomfortable but the tall man leaned forward to whisper something in John's ear that made him smile. Still leaning into John, he began dropping soft kisses along John's earlobe and lowered his head to kiss his neck, jawline, chin and then his lips. John pulled back and looked at the man for a long moment as if making a decision. Then he raised his hand to the tall man's curls, pulled his head down again and kissed him wetly, with his tongue. At the other end of the bar, Sherlock fingers tightened around his glass until it shattered in his grasp. 'Fuck!' he cried out. His hand was uninjured but he felt his chest clench as his world seemed to crumble around him. He turned around and stumbled toward the exit, wanting nothing more than to get away from what he had just witnessed. __

John and the tall man kissed for a few minutes. John _tried _to lose himself in the kiss, he _tried _to feel something, anything, anything at all to fill the emptiness in his heart, but he couldn't. Pulling back, he gazed into questioning hazel eyes. No! This was all wrong. He wanted to be looking into gray-green eyes lined with thick dark lashes and narrowed quizzically at him, eyes that saw through to his very soul. John was not given to thinking in romantic, poetic terms but those eyes seemed to hold the power to see right into him and strip him naked with just a look. Oh god, how he loved Sherlock! He shook his head and held a hand to the other man's chest and whispered his apologies. He left the club and began walking back to the flat.

* * *

The flat was dark when he entered and he thought Sherlock was out. Then he thought he heard a metallic clink from the bathroom. He walked to the bathroom and softly knocked on the door.

'Sherlock?' he called out but there was no answer.

'Sherlock? Are you in there?'

'Leave me alone!' he heard his flatmate growl and John suddenly was on high alert. Something was not right.

'Are you alright? Sherlock?' John was starting to worry.

'Sherlock! Open the door! Damn it! What are you doing?!'__

'Why do you care?' his flatmate asked in a plaintive voice. He sounded torn.__

'Sherlock, please. Open up. I'm worried about you. Please…let me in.' __

'You left me, John. You're leaving me. You're always leaving me.' Sherlock couldn't hold back the sickening sound of a heave. He felt so weak.John heard another clink.__

'Sherlock.' John said in his army voice. He realized what his friend was doing. 'Open the door NOW or I'm breaking it down and coming in.' __

He had his hand on the door handle and when he heard the lock click, turned it open. Sherlock was on the floor leaning against the tub, clutching a syringe in his right hand, a tourniquet tied above his left elbow. John was horrified.__

'What the HELL are you thinking, Sherlock!' he cried as he snatched the syringe from Sherlock. 'Get up. Get off the floor. Now!' he commanded as he wrapped the syringe in a tissue, shattered it and flushed it down the toilet, his face hard, jaws clenching in anxiety. He stared down at his friend but Sherlock wouldn't look him in the eye. Then he knelt beside Sherlock, untied the tourniquet and hooked a finger under his chin to lift Sherlock's face to him. __

'Sherlock…What's all this, then?' he asked, calmer this time but still in control. 'Get up. Please. Let's get you to your room.' __

He studied his friend's face and was shocked at what he saw. The dark circles, gaunt cheeks, the profound despair in those mysterious, gray-green eyes. The man before him was broken but still defiant. __

'Sherlock, Sherlock…oh god…what are you doing to yourself?' he asked softly. 'When was the last time you ate?' He gently ran his fingers over Sherlock's clammy forehead, brushing the damp curls back. Sherlock's eyes closed of their own accord and he leaned into John's touch. But he wouldn't speak.__

'Alright, let's get you to your room. You need food and rest. Jesus. You're a wraith.' he said, his voice brimming with concern. Sherlock looked up at John and his eyes betrayed his anguish. He quickly looked away when he saw John's expression change to one of alarm. __

Sherlock's body had gone limp so John lifted his friend's arm and put it around his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and helped him to his feet. __

'I can walk. I don't need your help', Sherlock said, in a last ditch attempt at self-reliance.__

John knew what he was thinking. 'It's ok to lean on someone. It doesn't make you weak. I'm here for you.'__

'No. You're not.'__

John shook his head indulgently and led his friend to his bedroom, their bodies pressed against each other from shoulder to hip and each time John felt an erratic shiver running through Sherlock's body, he instinctively tightened his arm around the taller man's slender waist. 'It's OK, Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine. Just a few more steps…'__

When they reached Sherlock's bedroom, John helped him lie down and pulled the covers up to his chin. __

'Rest a bit. I'll be back with some soup and toast. Jesus, Sherlock. What are you doing?' he asked sounding exhausted and unsure.__

Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his eyes running over patterns in the textured surface. John returned some minutes later with a tray on which he had placed a bowl of hot soup and two slices of buttered toast. __

'You're not my nurse.' Sherlock murmured petulantly.__

'I think tonight I _am_ your nurse.' he said with a sad smile. 'Eat up. Come on.' __

Sherlock sat up and took the bowl of soup from John. John sat on the edge of the bed and watched his friend devour the soup and then the toast. He wondered when Sherlock had last eaten.__

'Want some more?' he asked. __

'No, this was sufficient...It was good.' __

He handed the bowl and plate back to John and looked down at the sheets. John took the tray back to the kitchen and returned to sit on the edge of the bed.__

Thank you, John.' __

'Do you want to talk about this? What you're doing is not healthy.'__

'What do you want me to say?'__

'Well, let's start with what is so _terribly_ wrong in your life that you almost shot yourself up with _cocaine_. You have stayed off the vile stuff for years. Why now?'__

'You wouldn't understand.'__

'I would, if you explained it to me.'__

'No, there's nothing to say.' He looked away.__

'Sherlock…I'm not leaving till you talk to me. Please. I am worried about you.'__

'When are you moving out?'__

John's heart sank. He pulled in his upper lip between his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. A moment later, he had composed himself. __

'Well, as you know…my efforts to find another flat have been…unsuccessful. But I'll start looking again tomorrow. Now, will you talk to me? Why are you doing this?'__

'Why do you think?'__

'Honestly, I don't know! You look so unhappy, Sherlock. Have you seen yourself lately? You look like you're grieving. What's making you feel like this? Or who? What is going on?'__

'What do you think is going on?'__

'I don't know and I can't begin imagine what could make you so miserable. To an onlooker, you have everything! You are brilliant, young, healthy, rich even. And so beautiful! Your brother cares about you, enough to thwart my flat-hunting. I lo…care about you more than I do about _anyone_ else. Lestrade has your back when you're on a case and he actually likes you, you know? As a friend. Molly and Mrs. Hudson adore you. And you're so gorgeous. If you could just rein in your tendency to scare people away with your frightening deductions, you could have _anyone_ you wanted, man or woman. You even made Irene Adler, a self-confessed lesbian, fall for you! What don't you already have?'__

Sherlock suddenly snapped up to sit on the bed on folded legs and leaned forward to grab John by the arms. __

'I don't have _you_!' he cried. 'You said you _loved_ me.' his voice hitched on the word "loved". 'But you don't _look_ at me anymore, John! What must I do to make you look at me again? To love me again?' he asked in a raw, broken, aching voice. He sounded tormented. His fingers were digging painfully into John's arms and his eyes were manic as they flitted, unblinking, back and forth across John's eyes, searching for an answer.__

'Sherlock…I don't look at you because it hurts too much. And I never _stopped_ loving you. I won't. I _can't_. Love is not a choice. And I suspect I'm doomed to feel this way till the end. But it's just a foolish man's conceit that you would feel similarly. It doesn't mean _anything_!' __

'No! No! It means everything! Don't you see, John?'__

'No, I don't see…' John whispered as a tear ran down his cheek. 'I went to a club tonight. I kissed a man.'__

'I saw you kiss him.'__

'Did you follow me there?'__

'Yes. I wanted to tell you everything tonight. But then I saw you with another man and I didn't know what to do. I fled the club. I felt pathetic.'__

'He reminded me of you. Tall, pale and dark haired. Like you. But he wasn't you. His eyes were wrong. I couldn't do it, Sherlock. I couldn't do anything more.'__

'So you came back to me.'__

'I don't know…did I come back to you?'__

'Don't leave me...Please…just don't.'__

'What do you want from me, Sherlock?'__

'_Anything_ you're willing to give me.'__

John ran his hands through his hair as if to clear his muddled thoughts.__

'I like things to be clear. I don't deal well with ambiguity. I'm going to tell you what I feel for you. I'm going to lay everything out in the open and then I want you do the same. Is that acceptable to you? If not, I won't say another word about this subject.' __

Sherlock looked into John's blue eyes and almost melted with love. __

'Yes, that is acceptable.'__

John cleared his throat and began. __

'Alright, then. I love you, Sherlock. I've loved you as a friend since that first day with the cabbie. I've loved you romantically since the pool. I've loved you sexually since Buckingham Palace when you nearly dropped your sheet. I love you in all the ways that word can be interpreted. I never expected to meet one person who would complete me, but you are that person. It's only you. It's only you.__

I've kept quiet about it because I know you don't feel that way. You said you were married to your Work and I respected that. I don't know if you've had relationships now or in the past but I was certain you were not interested in me. So it was a simple choice – speak my feelings and end our friendship or hold my tongue and continue to be able to live with you. Now, however, you know how I feel. I know you care for me in your own mad way, which is why you've been doing all this. But I need to know, now, unequivocally, what you feel for me. I have opened myself up to you and you could make me or break me with your words. But I need to know.' __

John fell silent and waited.__

Sherlock took a few deep breaths and then he spoke.__

'I have evaluated our relationship against the parameters of a normal romantic relationship and found that, on every single parameter, it's a resounding _yes_. I am inexorably drawn to you. I am empty without you. I am and have been _incomplete_ without you. I just didn't realize it until that day at the pub. __

I knew I could trust you with my life after you shot the cabbie and offered to die for me at the pool. You became a part of me then. I knew I would die for you. I need you. Every day. Every single day. I want to hold you through your nightmares. I need to know you're safe and happy. I need to know you're in the flat. Your presence calms me, grounds me. I need you to take care of me, make tea and toast for me, laugh with me, tell me when I'm being inhuman', he winced on the word but continued bravely, 'hide my cigarettes. I need you. You bring order to my chaos. You are interesting to me and you continue to surprise me every day. You _excite_ me. I think of my life before you were in it. I was living but I was not _alive_.'__

He looked up at John and saw that John had tilted his head a little and was looking right at him with his full attention, hanging on his every word. Sherlock lowered his eyes nervously, looking very fragile. He swallowed thickly and slid his hand forward on the sheets to be closer to John's. John reached out and covered Sherlock's hand with his, curling around Sherlock's long violinist fingers. He squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly in reassurance. Sherlock bit his lower lip and then continued speaking.__

'I _want_ you, John. I want you with me. I don't want to…no,' he corrected, 'I _can't_ share you with _anyone_. I want your lips, your body. I think of your body every single day. I have pleasured myself to thoughts of your naked body. I have tried to imagine the skin on your chest pressed against mine. I've thought of doing things to your body and of you doing things to mine. I am obsessed with your lips and mouth. Your eyes, your arms and back and chest and your powerful legs. I'm obsessed with _you_. And I have thought about touching you between your legs and bringing you pleasure. I want you. So much that you slow me down on cases. You're a distraction. You're almost a liability to have around.'__

He felt John's fingers tighten around his and he looked up again.__

'By all conventional measures, I suppose this would be interpreted as love. So, in that case, yes, I love you. I love you, John. Romantically, sexually. I love you. And by those standards, you are the only person I have ever loved. I want you as a friend. As a lover. And I want you forever...or as long as you are willing to give me. I'll take anything you give me.'__

John's head was bowed, his other hand covered his mouth and his shoulders shook at irregular intervals.__

'John…please look at me. Talk to me…please John!' __

John looked up and his face was streaked with tears. He was biting his lip, trying to gain some control over himself and his forehead was creased with love. __

'Fuck, only you could make me cry.'

He swallowed and squeezed Sherlock's hand, raising his other hand to touch Sherlock's curls, tentatively, as if seeking permission.

'You are allowed to touch me, you know.' Sherlock said flatly.

'Am I, really?' John asked with a small answering smile, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, caressing his scalp tenderly.

'Yes. You are also allowed to kiss me. In fact, you are encouraged to do so.' So soon he was Sherlock again, at once imperious and affectionate.

John leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly, so lightly, to Sherlock's lips and held them there, allowing Sherlock to take the lead. He did not want to rush Sherlock into anything he wasn't ready for.

Sherlock tilted his face up to press harder into John's lips. He parted his lips and slowly licked John's lips open with his and when John responded, he darted his tongue inside John's mouth, pushing past his teeth, seeking his tongue. When their tongues met in a shared sigh, they began to lick their way around each other's mouths, discovering the taste and sensations of kissing a lover.

John cradled Sherlock's face in his hand as he dropped kiss after wet kiss on his lips, his cheeks, his closed eyes, his cheekbones, his neck, licking at the soft skin behind his ear. With every press of his lips he was confessing his love, his adoration, his devotion to the man before him more eloquently than any words could. Sherlock's arms were around John, his hands were positioned on John's back, one hand spread between John's shoulder blades and the other splayed on his lower back, trying to pull him close when John pulled back.

'No, no, don't stop now!' Sherlock gasped.

'I'm not stopping.' John smiled. 'We're just getting started.'


	6. What would happen

**What would happen**

* * *

Chapter Summary: Spontaneous combustion

* * *

What Would Happen – Meredith Brooks

_Electricity, eye to eye_

_Hey don't I know you_

_I can't speak_

_Stripped my senses_

_On the spot_

_I've never been defenseless_

_I can't even make sense of this_

_You speak and I don't hear a word_

_What would happen if we kissed_

_Would your tongue slip past my lips_

_Would you run away, would you stay_

_Or would I melt into you_

_Mouth to mouth, lust to lust_

_Spontaneously combust_

* * *

_'I'm not stopping.' John smiled. 'We're just getting started.'_

'I want to take a shower first. I smell of sweat and whiskey. I've been crying. I'm not at my best. Give me a few minutes to clean up, yeah?'

'No.' Sherlock pouted and John smiled again.

'Five minutes is all I ask. OK? Stay here. I'll be back before you know I'm gone.'

He leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock. And again. And once more.

'I love you.' he murmured. 'Wait for me.'

John headed to his bedroom to strip off his clothes. A minute later Sherlock heard the shower running. His lips twitched in a lopsided smile and he got out of bed.

John had brushed his teeth (he wanted his first time with Sherlock to be perfect and club-breath was _not_ perfection) and now stood under the shower, his eyes closed, relishing the feeling of the scalding water running down his body. He felt the memories of the club washing away, replaced by his imaginings of making love to Sherlock. He turned his head and cocked one eye open when he heard the bathroom door open, followed closely by the whirring of an electric toothbrush. He smiled - Sherlock, apparently, had the same idea.

Then the shower curtain shifted and he was not alone. A head of silky, dark curls brushed against his cheeks as cool, soft lips pressed to the side of his neck. Slender arms wrapped around his chest and a long body pressed up behind him, chest to shoulder blades, thighs to buttocks, knees to thighs. His lover's interest was announcing itself against the curve of his arse, nudging between the top of his cheeks, and he leaned his head back to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock gently lifted John's chin, turned his face to the side and bent down to cover his mouth with his. They kissed for a long time, slowly, languorously lapping tongues and nibbling lips as the hot water washed over their bodies. Sherlock held John's shoulders and turned him around to face him, still kissing, pulling his body flush against his, his arms wrapped around John in a tender embrace. John's arms encircled Sherlock's narrow waist and he moved his hands over his lover's lean back, tracing the corded muscles with his fingers, pressing down on the hard knobs of his spine and then reaching down with both hands to grasp Sherlock's wet, slippery arse cheeks, fingers slipping between them and squeezing them apart lightly.

His lover pulled back with a gasp. 'John...' he breathed and looked at John but quickly closed his eyes, overcome, unable to meet John's open, adoring gaze.

John leaned his ear against Sherlock's heart and heard it racing. He pressed little kisses to Sherlock's skin, nuzzling his face in the soft wet hair on his chest.

'You're beautiful, you know. Like a work of art.' he said between kisses. 'It's all I can do to keep from throwing you against the wall and ravaging you.'

He kissed Sherlock's nipple and it hardened against his lips. He opened his mouth and breathed hotly against the pink nub, feeling his lover shudder.

'I love you. Sherlock. God, I love you.'

He darted his tongue out to lick a circle around the flushed nipple and then pulled it into a hard, obscene suck before letting it slip from his lips with a loud pop. John heard his lover let out a soft mewl of pleasure and the arms around him tightened, pulling him even closer.

'I can't believe I'm touching you like this. I've wanted you for so long.'

He looked up at Sherlock through wet lashes, his eyes hooded with lust, water running down their faces in rivulets. Sherlock buried his hands in John's hair and pulled his head back to cover his mouth again and lick inside, noisily, sloppily.

'Tell me...' Sherlock breathed into John's mouth.

John began to move his body against his lover's, feeling Sherlock's cock swelling against his flat belly, his own cock filling with want as it rubbed against Sherlock's dewy thighs.

'I want you, my love.' he murmured hungrily against Sherlock's glistening skin. 'I want you to come inside me. I want to come when I'm buried inside you. I want to suck you and make you cum down my throat. And then, when you're all pleasured out, I want to fuck you again.'

He felt Sherlock's heart fluttering under his fingertips and tried to calm the increasingly erratic pattern of his breathing by dropping feathery kisses on his chest. He lifted his eyes, still kissing and saw his lover's head thrown back, his teeth biting hard into his lower lip.

'I'll fuck you hard and then I'll love you and then I'll let you fuck me. God help me, Sherlock. I want to, every single day. You look like you were made for fucking...by me.' he growled, betraying his primal urge to possess his gorgeous detective. 'You're _mine_.'

That broke Sherlock. His mouth was open and his breath came in short, heavy pants as feral blue eyes gazed up into wrecked gray-green irises between fluttering eyelids. Sherlock pushed them apart with a strangled cry.

'Stop talking,' he growled 'or I'll cum right here, right now.'

They made quick work of shampooing and washing each other. Grabbing towels, they dried each other off and John started to wrap a towel around his waist.

'No need', Sherlock rasped and, stepping out of the shower, pulled John into a punishing embrace, crashing his lips against his doctor's in a violent assault on his mouth.

Greedily licking and biting and tasting. Teeth clacking as they tried to find an angle that worked, a rhythm settling in as their mouths sucked and lapped and they breathed into each other's mouths, hands searching, finding, grabbing, scratching, kneading. John whimpered as Sherlock dragged his lips along his jawline, down to his neck, sucking a wet trail of bruises down his throat, kissing along his collar bone to reach the scar on his shoulder. Their lust and frenzy somehow ceded to tenderness and reverence as Sherlock ran his fingers very softly over the scar, tracing its shape and learning the texture and colour of the tissue and then bent his head to lick it, as if memorizing the taste.

None of his lovers had ever honoured, or even accepted, the scar as a part of John and he was overcome with gratitude for Sherlock's affection and understanding of what it meant to him and when Sherlock raised his head, he was looking into moist deep blue eyes, widened in overflowing love.

John's voice was tremulous when he begged 'Please, take me. Sherlock, please! I need you inside me. Oh god, please my love...I love you so much.'

Sherlock nodded and they kissed again softly, as Sherlock led John into his bedroom. When they were standing by the bed, he cradled John's face in his large hands and placed a soft kiss, a pledge, on John's forehead and said 'I'll need to prepare you, alright? I love you. Lie down. I'll be back in a minute. I love you.'

John heard a switch being turned on and saw a glow coming from the bathroom as he lay on his back, stiff and naked, on Sherlock's bed, turning his face into the pillow to breathe in his lover's scent. He had fantasized about this moment for a long time now but nothing could have prepared him for the heavy, staccato pounding of his heart, the frightening anticipation of making love to Sherlock for the first time, of giving himself to his lover, of his first time ever being penetrated by a man, by his love.

Sherlock switched off the bathroom light and entered the bedroom. He dropped a box of tissues on the bedside table and bent down to retrieve a condom and lube from the drawer. He straightened and stood naked, his silhouette framed by the door. The lights were off, the only illumination provided by the moon beams streaming in through the gently billowing curtains, painting the bedroom, and their bodies, in a mystical indigo light. John's throat ran dry at the sight of Sherlock's long limbs, deceptively slender when clothed but all lean muscle in the nude. The doctor in John noted ruefully that Sherlock's body was showing some effects of his two-week sulk. Oh well, he would just have to feed him up.

Sherlock raised one hand to run through his curls while the other was on his hip as he looked over John's body with undisguised lust, fully aware of the effect of his nakedness on John. His magnificent erection was on proud display and John unconsciously and lasciviously ran his tongue along his lower lip as he imagined being repeatedly impaled on that long, thick, hard shaft, his arse slapping against those strong, sinewy thighs.

'God, Sherlock, you've been holding out on me', he giggled nervously.

'Indeed. And likewise, John.' Sherlock's voice was low and suggestive as he cocked an impressed eyebrow at John's thick, strong erection, so much like the man himself.

Sherlock's skin appeared to change hue from marble white to inky blue in the changing light and shadow of the moonlight as the sheer curtains fluttered and rippled languidly in the light breeze wafting through the room. The pale planes and curves and darkened dips in his musculature reminded John of the cold, beautiful, unattainable statues of naked heroes in the Greek gallery at the British Museum and he was filled with giddy pride and not a little excitement that he was about to be fucked by his very own exquisite, Byronic, mad detective of Grecian proportions. Oh yeah.

Sherlock approached the bed and sat on the edge and felt his lover shudder at the electric touch of his fingers running down his face. He leaned over and kissed John's lips.

'Are you sure you want this, John?'

'I've never been surer of anything in my life.' John assured him.

'Alright then, lie back and spread your legs.'

John obeyed and spread his legs apart, wide enough that Sherlock could kneel in the space between his knees.

'I love you, John. And I'm going to make our first time unforgettable. Trust me.'

John nodded and reached out to place a hand behind Sherlock's neck and pull his face to his.

'I do. With my life. And my arse, apparently. ', he giggled. 'But kiss me first? I want to keep kissing you. It's never enough.'

Sherlock bent down and captured John's lips in a tender kiss which quickly escalated to a heated and desperate lapping of tongues. Their mouths separated and Sherlock knelt on the bed and settled himself between John's legs. He laid light kisses on John's inner thigh and smiled against his lover's sensitive skin when he heard him whimper. Sticking out his tongue, he licked a wet stripe up John's skin all the way to the rough hair at the base of his cock, nuzzling his nose in it. Sherlock ran his cheek along the length of John's shaft and pressed soft kisses to the smooth, slick, swollen top, swirling his tongue around the tip and then dipping into the slit to taste John. John's back bowed off the bed and he let out a shivering howl of pleasure.

He reached down to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair as his lover descended and engulfed John in the wet heat of his mouth. He took John in deep and then pulled back to suck on the tip and then lowered his head again and pulled back again, hollowing his cheeks on the way up. John was awash in waves of pleasure, tendrils of thrilling sensation forming in his groin and radiating out to pervade his entire body as Sherlock sucked and licked and worshiped his flesh.

He pulled off with a wet pop and smiled at John's moan of protest.

'Hold on. I'm going to prepare you now. I know you've never done this before. It'll be uncomfortable at first but, I promise you, it will get better.'

Sherlock reached for the lube and squeezed a bit onto his fingers, rubbing them to warm it up.

'Knees up and apart.' he said, slapping John's thigh playfully.

John complied, breaths coming in short bursts, and Sherlock reached his lubed hand down to John's cleft, running his fingers along the crack, slicking his skin and teasing the puckered flesh till he reached the centre and pressed his finger against it.

He heard John gasp and whispered reassuringly 'It's ok...it's ok...' as he pushed one finger in to the first knuckle.

John's hands twisted in the sheets and he moaned in discomfort but Sherlock kept up the pressure until his finger was fully embedded in John's tight heat. Meanwhile, he lowered his head to take John in his mouth again, sucking the sensitized shaft with a lazy, teasing tongue in rhythm with his finger, pulling it out and pushing it back in again and again and again. John's passage seemed to be loosening a little and Sherlock added a second finger and then a third and continued fucking John with his slippery fingers and laving his cock with his curious tongue.

He bent his fingers searching for and finding John's bundle of nerves and brushed against it lightly, pressing his other hand down on John's belly to keep him from arching too high off the bed as he wailed with pleasure. He ran his fingers over the bump again and again and John let out an alternating litany of endearments and tortured cries of pleasure and pain. Sherlock felt a hand tug his hair and realizing John was close, he began to suck and fuck John with his fingers harder and faster.

John was looking down his body, transfixed, at the sight of Sherlock's dark head bobbing between his legs when suddenly, Sherlock lifted his head slightly, his lips still wrapped around John's cock and his fingers still pumping in and out of John's arse, and looked up at John through his lashes and held his gaze. This unexpected visual connection was so intimate, so incredibly erotic and electric that John tipped over the edge, ceding all control of his muscles as he exploded into Sherlock's mouth, his orgasm jolting through his spasming body in an unstoppable torrent of sensation.

Sherlock felt his mouth flood with John's salty cum and swallowed pulse after pulse of ejaculate, licking and sucking everything John had to give. He felt John's hole clamp and release around his fingers as he climaxed, his belly shuddering under Sherlock's palm, rising and falling with the slow ending gasps of his breath as he spilled the last of his release into Sherlock's greedy mouth.

John's body fell back onto the bed, limp and spent. Sherlock pulled his fingers out very gently and dropped soft kisses on his belly, dipping his tongue into his navel, trailing kisses up his body, on his chest, nipples, collarbone, shoulders, neck and finally, covered John's mouth with his. John hungrily licked into Sherlock's mouth, the taste of himself unbearably sensual. Sherlock pressed his lips to the soft skin behind his ear. They held each other for a long moment, silent, listening to the quivering breaths, their steadying hearts and then Sherlock whispered against John's ear lobe.

'John, my love...are you ready? I want to take you now.'

'I'm ready...I'm ready... Oh god, fill me! Take me, please...'

Sherlock pulled on a condom, lubed himself up and positioned himself at John's entrance.

'Look at me, John. I want you to see me taking you, owning you, loving you...' his voice trailed as John opened his eyes to hold Sherlock's gaze as he pushed into the hot, tight silky passage until, with a single, steady thrust, he was fully sheathed in his lover's body. John grasped Sherlock's arms, fingers digging into his flesh as he bit his lip to adjust to the burn and the uncomfortable feeling of being filled with something much longer and thicker and harder than three fingers. Sherlock held still until John nodded for him to continue. He bowed his body so that he was stretched over John and lowered his head to kiss him. He started to move his hips very slowly but froze when John cried out in pain and oversensitivity as Sherlock brushed his prostate.

Sherlock immediately started to pull out. 'We shouldn't do this...I'm hurting you!' he cried.

'No! No, please! Don't, Sherlock, please! I want you inside me, please...'

'John…I don't want to hurt you…'

'You won't, you won't. I trust you…Please, don't stop now…'

Sherlock leaned down to kiss John and rested his forehead against the other man's.

'It might be easier if you're on your stomach the first time.' he said gently. 'Or', he suggested hopefully, 'you could ride me…You'll be able to control things...and I'll get to see your face...I want to look into your eyes…'

'I want to ride you. I love you, Sherlock. I want to see you too, as you come inside me.'

He pulled off of John and sat up to settle against the headrest, propped up against his pillows. John straddled his hips and looked down to take Sherlock's cock in his hand, positioning it at his entrance and then slowly sank down on the thick, long shaft. His eyes were closed, his face was drawn and he bit his lower lip, fighting against the pain of being stretched around Sherlock's long and thick cock.

'Let me in...John...let me in...don't fight me...John…give in to me...i love you...i won't hurt you...I'll never hurt you...' Sherlock whispered in his lover's ear and heard John whimper in response.

They stilled, wrapped in each other for a long moment and then John tentatively moved his hips in a circular motion. The pain had dulled and was giving way to pleasure and he lifted his hips, pulling off Sherlock till only the tip of his cock was inside John and then sank all the way down again in one smooth move. Sherlock shuddered and dug his fingers into John's waist, pressing his forehead against his lover's chest as John picked up the pace. His body had adjusted to Sherlock and he was now moving his hips up and down and around, teasing Sherlock, taking control of their lovemaking as the man below him shook helplessly as pleasure shot through his body with every clench of John's walls around his cock.

He turned his face to lay his cheek against John's chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart when, suddenly, he caught their reflection in the mirror.

Their bodies were covered in a thin sheen of sweat. John was beautiful as he undulated, his arms and legs wrapped around Sherlock who was staring at their reflection, mesmerized, feeling like a voyeur watching another couple make love in black and white.

He watched, panting, as John leaned back to place his hands behind him on Sherlock's knees and rolled and lifted and dropped his hips over and over.

He watched the outline of his cock be revealed against a shard of light that appeared between their bodies when John's hips rose and then watched as it was swallowed by darkness and heat when John sank down to impale himself fully on Sherlock again and again.

He watched their heaving, glistening bodies fusing slickly at the groin, the indecent slap of skin on damp skin taking him dangerously close to the edge.

Tearing his eyes from the mirror, he looked up at John who was looking down at him questioningly.

Maddened with desire, Sherlock lunged forward, pushing John down on the bed on his back, still buried in him, and pushed his legs wider apart and began slamming into him in a quick rhythm, snapping his hips in over and over, hard and brutal, consumed by lust, feeling John's passage shiver around him and then suddenly he stiffened and arched back as his orgasm ripped through his body, his nerves lit up with pleasure and he collapsed onto his lover's chest, his body jerking to completion as he pulsed his release inside John's body.

'Oh...oh...god...huh…huh…huh…ohgodohgodohgod...John...myjohnmyjohn' he cried against his lover's skin. He lay limp, draped over John as his breathing slowed and he came down from his climax.

'Sherlock...I love you I love you...' John cried in a ragged voice, kissing his hair, cradling him in a lover's caress, his legs crossed at the ankles, wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

They lay quiet and wrapped in each other for a long time, feeling safe in the sanctuary of their embrace, whispering words of their love. Then Sherlock shifted to pull out of John and dispose of the condom. He cleaned them both and pulled the covers to their chins as they turned to face each other, John nestling his face in Sherlock's chest while long arms and legs pulled him into a warm cocoon.

'If you ever do this with anyone else, I will find you, kill your lover and then lock you up in the flat forever. Naked.' Sherlock said flatly.

John smiled against Sherlock's chest. 'Then I'd better not make that mistake.'

'Good night, John.'

'Good night, my love.'


	7. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Loud pants and hot breaths permeated the dark room as John rhythmically stabbed into Sherlock for the third time in two days. Sherlock howled out his orgasm, spurting his cum all over John's pumping hand, followed a few seconds later by John's anguished groan of release.

Five months after their first night as lovers, the fire between them showed no signs of abating. Their lovemaking was sometimes frantic and violent and at other times, elegant and tender and loving. They found themselves communicating with a single glance where, in the past, they would have had need for words. It was as though they shared more than just bodily fluids when they made love. They had shared their energies, their spirits, their essences.

As they basked in the afterglow, Sherlock spoke.

'You masturbated this morning. To gay porn.'

'I…y-yes, yes, I did. I won't ask you how you know.'

'Why?'

'Why do I masturbate?'

'Yes... Am I not…enough…for you?' Sherlock sounded hesitant.

'Hey, hey, love…now what's that?'

'I don't ever need to masturbate to strange men having sex. When I want sex, I come to you. I'll ask you to masturbate me, if that's what I want.'

'I…I don't know. It's just something I've done most of my life. A lot of people do that… Visual stimulation is very powerful so sometimes when I need release I just…'

'I don't like it.' Sherlock cut him off. 'I don't like that you are titillated by watching unknown _professionals_', he spat out the word.

'Sherlock…' John cajoled.

'Our first time…I saw us in the mirror and I lost control. You looked so beautiful. I lost control and I hurt you.'

'You didn't hurt me, Sherlock. It was _really _the best sex I had had until then. Bar none. And it only gets better each time.' he added shyly.

'Since that night, I could see the appeal of visual stimulation…So…I have a proposition.'

John turned to his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Sherlock.

'Alright, then. Let's hear your proposition.'

'I suggest we film ourselves.'

'What!'

'You can masturbate to films of us making love. In fact, I might want to try that too. Of course, I don't want us getting bored so we will have one segment for each position, each room, each surface. Me inside you, you inside me, you on your stomach, me riding you, you fucking me from behind, you sucking me, 69-ing, hand jobs, toys. Oh! The possibilities are endless!' He sounded gleeful, like he did on a particularly interesting case.

'Sherlock!'

'I think I should call Lestrade and tell him we're unavailable for the next 2 months. Do you think that's enough time?'

'Wha..Sherlock! No! Although that's a _lovely_ idea, I can't do that. I just won't. It makes me feel like a slut. And I am _not_ a slut!'

Sherlock looked disappointed. 'I see…You've done all of those things with me already but you are not willing to do it on film. For us.'

'I would be perfectly willing to be filmed, _only_ _by_ you and_ for _you if…', John paused with a sly, shy smile and cleared his throat, 'if it would strengthen my relationship with my…uh…husband.'

Sherlock smirked. 'So that's how you're going to ask me to marry you?'

'Yes it is. And it's a pretty good proposal, under the circumstances.' John huffed. 'Seriously, Sherlock, I think we've learned more about each other the past year than most couples have after 5 years of being together. We have faced death together. We are crazy about each other…' his voice trailed upwards in an implied question.

'We _are_ crazy about each other', Sherlock assured him with a smile, pulling him into an embrace.

John laid his head on Sherlock's chest, his arm thrown around his lover's body.

'So I don't think it's too soon. I want to marry you.'

'Alright, let's get married.' Just like that.

'Sherlock! You don't have to answer right away. I know how much you detest _relationships_, but I'd like you to think about it.'

'I've thought about it. Let's do it.'

'Really, Sherlock! You _don't_ have to rush into things. Just think about it. This is serious. I'm talking long term commitment. I take marriage seriously and it's actually _till death us do part_ for me. And given what we do, that might happen sooner than we expect.'

'Shut up.'

'No, Sherlock. Please, think about this before agreeing.'

'What for? Your analysis was perfectly sound, albeit a tad sentimental. But that's who you are – _sentimental_ John – and I accept you for who you are.'

'Oh really. And who exactly was laying his head in my lap, not an hour ago, pleading with me to never leave him?'

'That was a momentary weakness. You were being completely intransigent and unreasonable. I had calculated that pleading would work in that situation.' he said in his own defense. Sherlock was pouting and John was dying with love for him.

_'Anyway_, are you done interrupting me?' Sherlock asked in mock anger.

'I'm sorry, love. Please, continue', John said and kissed him lightly on the lips.

'As I was saying, since that night it has been my intention to spend the rest of my days with you. Any other arrangement is unacceptable. And as you have made marriage a pre-condition for your acceptance of my terms, it is perfectly logical that we make things official at the earliest. Mycroft can see to the arrangements. He does like to feel useful. You can ask Lestrade to be your best man. He was, after all, instrumental in getting us together. I think a simple ceremony with a few select guests would do very nicely and later, we can go to Paris and Venice for our honeymoon. All good?' he asked, typing out a text with one hand.

_John and I are getting married. SH_

10 seconds later, his phone buzzed.

_It's about time. MH_

Two more texts were sent simultaneously.

_May I offer my services with the arrangements? MH_

_Would you be so kind as to make the arrangements? SH_

Two responses were exchanged in parallel…

_Thank you, brother. SH_

_It would be my pleasure, brother. MH_

Sherlock turned to John. 'That's done. Mycroft is aware and will organize everything.'

Then he noticed that John had fallen silent. He tossed his phone onto the bedside table and turned to look at him .

'John...what's wrong?...I _do _want this, you know? I _really_, _do _want to marry you.'

'I know...I'm just being paranoid, I suppose...I...uh...Sherlock...I know how you have felt about sentiment all your life and I worry that you're doing this because _I_ want it.'

'Yes, John...I _am _doing this because _you_ want it.' he smiled.

'I _want_ to be with you.' he murmured into John's hair. 'That's all I know. It doesn't matter to me what we call our relationship. I will be with you any way you want me. I know marriage is important to you. You want to marry me. And therefore, I want to marry you. It's really quite simple. But of course, you have to complicate things.' he said in mock annoyance.

'I'm so desperately in love with you, Sherlock.'

'And I'm desperately in love with you, John. You're the only one for me.'

The words seemed to have ended but Sherlock knew John was still agonizing over his reasons for agreeing to be married. They lay quiet for a long time. And then he knew what to say to convince John of how he felt.

'Will you marry me, John?'

He looked down into moist blue eyes above a blinding, defenseless smile on the face of his doctor.

'I will.'

- THE END-

OK, so I'm a sucker for HEA and want Sherlock and John to get married, in EVERY story! So I just had to add this extra chapter. If you have stayed with this story right till the end, I thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you thought via your review!


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